


First Blood

by Zygzy



Series: Baptism by Fire [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Major Character Injury, Psychological Trauma, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 03:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5692660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zygzy/pseuds/Zygzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one ever told him there would be so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Blood

It starts with a thrill.

He can hear it through the clatter of metal, over throaty shouts. Raspy tones slide past his cheek to coil around an ear, whispering above the din. It slows, stops, and then begins again, almost matching the ebb and flow of blood seeping between his fingers. It ends with a shudder. The last breath lingers on his skin, warm and soft as a kiss.

Like a marionette cut from its strings, the brigand goes limp. The body leans against him as empty eyes and a slack jaw hang a hairsbreadth from his own. Warmth continues to trickle over his knuckles, leaving a sticky trail down his hands. Cleaning the blood from his gloves will take some time, if it is not more efficient to replace them outright; no one told him there would be so much.

It takes some effort, but he manages to twist the brigand away. It pulls at his sword while sliding off, a slow, almost hesitant departure. The forest seems to accept his offering of flesh as leaves crowd around the corpse, nearly swallowing it beneath a carpet of green. Only the face is exposed, still dirty and red with vitality. He can’t feel his arms, but he can see them tremble.

Hands clamp down over his body and he wants to scream. Something presses against his side and he does. It feels like a sharp kick to his ribs and pain radiates from the touch, washing across his chest and hip. His veins hum with the need to fight, to strike at whoever is pulling him down, but the metal shell around his arms feels like a leaden weight. He can barely hold his weapon in one hand.

They are dragging him down, pulling him back, and darkness creeps along the corners of his vision. He is going to die in a hole under a mountain of corpses while hands hold him in place until the pain rots away. He thrashes and kicks, gritting his teeth to choke a scream before it leaves his throat. Fear be damned, he will retain his dignity.

A face with nearly as many scars as wrinkles hovers over him and he stops. Gunther’s mouth opens and shuts to form what he knows are words but he can’t seem to hear them over his own pounding heart. There is fear in the old knight’s eyes, an emotion he was not sure Gunther was capable of knowing.

His mentor rests a hand over his chest and gently pushes him back down. The act leaves a bloody handprint on his cuirass. Many twitching fingers on his legs and arms make his skin crawl, and his heart is insistent on beating a path through his chest to freedom, but Gunther is here. He can trust the knight to watch over his weakness.

He raises a hand to join the one on his chest and finds it caked in red. The blood is cold, but he remembers its warmth, and stares at the glimmer of light reflected in its surface.

_You enjoyed that._

Corrin retches at the thought because he is not sure it is a lie.

**Author's Note:**

> A battlefield is nothing like the training grounds, and not everyone is prepared for the transition, least of all a young adult with a history of trauma and a divine father of questionable sanity.


End file.
